


if i'm being honest

by gravityinglass



Category: Dalton (fanfiction), Glee, Teen Wolf (TV), spah!verse
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:16:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravityinglass/pseuds/gravityinglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the truth kills. and if they're being honest--which they're not--they're all dying a little faster than you'd think.</p><p>miscellaneous fandom character studies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teen Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: feelings, and lack of caps. 
> 
> an experiment, of sorts.

We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done. ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

 

**(i)-d e r e k-h a l e**

_oh, derek. you’re all alone again._

derek hale's biggest secret is something he hides in plain sight. it's not that he's a werewolf--that he does hide from most people--but it involves a girl he loved very much, a fire, and the death of eleven people. once you have the pieces, it’s not so hard to piece together—derek lost his family to the girl he loved, save one single solitary person...and then he lost both of them too.

is it really so surprising he never tells anyone?

he doesn't mind if people know. he doesn't mind if people don't know. but he'll never tell anyone himself.

it’s his biggest secret that he couldn’t save the one soul he’d have given anything for, but not a secret that he’d do anything to save someone important to him, if only to make up for the wrong he’d already done.

he never asked to be responsible for them.

and yet here he was, having killed his uncle, having lost everyone he ever loved, having to care for and train a group of emotionally unstable teenagers. here he was, losing a battle he never intended to fight and burying so many innocent ( _and not so innocent_ ) people. here he was, helping sixteen and seventeen year olds lose their innocence in the most painful of ways, in watching death and losing family and facing betrayal from people they'd never expect.

he wasn't made to be alpha, and even if he was surrounded by people, even if he was surrounded by his pack, he was still alone. he'd still lost his family at sixteen. he was older, and had different problems, and no one understood. he wasn't sure if he wanted them to.

still he loved them, and would protect them to his dying breath, his brothers and sisters and children. he loved them and would die for them. but he would never tell them his secrets, never tell them his deepest fears, never let them see him cry. they were replacements for the real thing, and they never quite fit. they never understood, and it always hurt when they dismissed him as crazy, or douchey, or psychotic.

but he'd never correct them. he was strong enough to endure the loss, but to tell anyone?

he wasn't sure he'd ever be strong enough for that.

_you’re so broken, derek. would your sister have wanted this?_

it's so difficult to let anyone in…

* * *

**(ii)-a l l i s o n-a r g e n t**

_just rebel, allison. break the rules._

her whole life, allison had thought she'd known who she was. she'd thought she was allison argent, daughter of a man who sold weapons to police and a woman who as a history teacher. she'd thought her aunt kate was like her sister; she'd thought they moved because her parents loved to travel.

then they'd moved to beacon hills and the life she'd thought she'd had fell apart.

her aunt was an arsonist, a murderer, and dead.

her parents killed others for a living, hiding in the guise of being normal people, hiding in plain sight, and they'd never bothered to tell her.

her grandfather tried to kill her boyfriend.

so she'd started rebelling. and not in small, little ways, either. she kept dating the boy her parents hated. she wore clothes her mother didn't approve of. she joined a werewolf pack, and used her talents to counter what her parents--her family--did.

a hunter in a werewolf pack. well, it had to happen sometime, she reasoned. and if it had to be someone, why not her? why not someone already head over heels with someone in the pack? why not someone with a mind of her own and a skill set to back it up? why not be someone with the motivation to counter everything her family stood for?

they'd lied to her, for years and years.

it was time she grew a spine and fought back.

_well, Allison. wanna start a revolution?_

you have no idea…

* * *

**(iii)-k a t e-a r g e n t**

_is this really you, kate? this murderess?_

once upon a time, there had been a girl. and that girl had fallen in love.

It had been beautiful, girl meets boy, hot passionate sex follows, and then...it hadn't ended well. she'd killed his family, and then...well. it wasn't like he'd want her around after that, no matter how much he loved her.

so she left. it was easier to remain indifferent, to forget about the boy with the dark brown eyes, and to lose herself in her job and an endless string of one night stands. if she tended to choose tall, muscled men with dark eyes and darker hair, well. no one would know but her, and them, and they'd forget she'd ever been there by the morning.

kate always had loved fairytales. red riding hood was her favorite. sometimes, when she was wounded and drifting and lost in her own head, she liked to pretend red had saved the wolf instead of letting the hunstman kill him. she'd never admit that. kate in her right mind never thought like that.

it was hard enough to forget him without being in love with him too.

and then she came back. she came back to beacon hills, and he was there, and she had to act like she didn't care. and judging by the look in his eyes--he didn't love her anymore. she knew eventually he'd have to kill her. or she'd have to kill him. that was the only way it could end.

in the end, she didn't kill him. he didn't kill her, either. but she'd killed his family, and his family killed her.

and considering who she was and who he was...well. that was practically a happy ending.

_the past always comes back, kate. did you ever really get over him?_

no love truer than young love…

* * *

**(iv)-j a c k s o n-w h i t m o r e**

_everyone makes mistakes, jackson. it’s a part of life._

the biggest mistake of jackson whitmore's life had nearly ended lydia martin's.

he left her because he thought he was too good for her, and then he realized it had been to protect her. that plan hadn't worked, had it?

because in the end, she had been hurt, and everything he'd ever done had either been for himself, or for her, and she was infinitely more important.

so when he had the chance to get her back, he didn't. he left her alone. he let her try to escape this life he'd fallen into, he let her go, tried to keep her safe and tried to keep her away.

but she fell in anyways.

so here they were, both trapped in a special type of hell that sometimes was heaven. heaven, hell and the inbetween, wasn't it? and it was all his fault. it was always his fault.

_you can’t blame yourself, jackson. how could you have known?_

guilt tastes worse than regret…

* * *

**(v)-s c o t t-m c c a l l**

_my goodness, scott. what happened to you?_

he hadn't asked for this. he hadn't asked for any of this.

he was sixteen, for god's sake, and he was now a mutant, and the girl he loved was the daughter of a man who wanted to kill him, or at least wanted to kill what he had become, he was failing two classes, and he'd never been so scared before in his life.

but somehow, somehow, he was getting stronger, learning more, moving faster, breaking every restriction he'd thought he'd had before. he had a girlfriend, who loved him and whom he loved, and that was something he'd barely dared to dream would happen. his best friend was proving stronger than he'd ever thought possible.

he was gaining friends and enemies at an equally alarming rate, and somehow his family, the family that had always been just him and his mother and some jerk who might've been his father but was never his dad, expanded. it started when he was six and stiles stilinksi wormed his way in, and then it stayed static for ten more years until suddenly more and more people were fitting in, and he was living life in a way he never had before, and he knew...

he knew if he was given the change to go back to the way it was, to have the wolfiness taken away from him and his life restored...he'd say no.

he knew too much now, he loved too many people now, and this change was part of him, for better and for worse.

maybe it was because he'd lived a few too many times when he should have died. maybe it was because it had brought him allison. maybe it was because he and stiles understood each other on a whole new level.

or maybe it was because he finally knew what it was like to live.

_life is a gift, scott. isn’t it nice to know you’ve pulled through?_

friends show up in unexpected places…

* * *

**(vi)-i s a a c-l a h e y**

_oh no, isaac. why do you feel alone?_

isaac had always been on his own. his mom had cut and run right after he was born, and his dad hated him. so he fended for himself, and didn't let anyone close enough to see when something was wrong. when his dad started to beat on him, he joined a contact sport to hide the bruises and give him an excuse.

when derek gave him the opportunity to change...why wouldn't he say yes? now, he could fight back. now, he could protect himself. now, he had pack. pack who didn't know him well, true, but would still fight to the death to protect him. and that was nice.

he had power now, he had a sister and two brothers, and  _they_  ran the show now. they weren't be beat-up lost souls, anymore.

he wondered why it still felt empty.

_you found a family, isaac. doesn’t it feel great?_

everyone deserves a family…

* * *

**(vii)-s t i l e s-s t i l i n s k i**

_be proud, stiles. just be yourself._

stiles always worried about making his dad proud. after all, there were only the two of them left--all four of his grandparents were dead, he had no cousins, no aunts or uncles, and his mother was long gone.

so he tried to make himself into the son his father would want--intelligent, respectable, respectful, brave, athletic, and...it wasn't him. he still tried, though.

in the end, he became someone else entirely.

he was named after his grandfather, a war hero, and his mother, who was stronger than anyone he'd ever known. they were some of the most grounded, reasonable people he knew.

and here he was, his best friend a werewolf, his crush some sort of magically immune witch thing, one of his teammates had temporarily been a lizard-monster hellbent on getting revenge for a classmate of theirs, he was having to run for his life far more often than was probably considered normal and the truth was...

it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

he felt so guilty about it, though. his mother always told him if there wasn't logic to back it up, don't believe in it until you find logic that will. she never read him fairytales, always true historical stories, factually accurate and always with a moral to be had.

believing in werewolves went against that.

but there was logic, there was fact, and there was proof. so maybe she'd have been proud of him after all.

_there are worse people to be named after, stiles. do you know how proud your grandfather would be?_

when in doubt, figure it out…

* * *

**(viii)-l y d i a-m a r t i n**

_don't listen to them, lydia. we know you're not stupid._

lydia martin was far from being stupid.

but being vapid was a nice shield to hide behind. if you were perfect, no one could dig their claws into your cracks. if playing herself down kept herself safe, she'd do it.

for a long time, it was just lydia and jackson, jackson and lydia. lydia knew when jackson fought against his 'parents' and how he was adopted, and jackson knew when lydia was whizzing through university courses online.

when he left her, cracks started to appear in her persona, and it became more and more difficult to pretend to be vapid, because she was alone.

when the time came, this pack, it was  a blessing, because she didn't have to hide anymore. she could be gorgeous, unattainable lydia martin,

but she could also be whip-smart i-know-more-than-you lydia martin, and that?

that felt better than being adored by the entire school ever did.

_you weren't stupid to begin with, lydia. but doesn't it feel better now that you've proved it?_

brains and beauty, have it all…

* * *

**(ix)-c h r i s-a r g e n t**

_the truth always comes out in the end, chris. no matter what you tell yourself._

the argent family had a lot of secrets, not just the fact that they were werewolf hunters.

chris had more personal secrets than even his entire family did. he made it his business to know everyone's secrets, and he knew his were a lot darker than even kate's, or their father's.

the first half of his life had been spent protecting kate, until he realized she didn't need it. then he tried to protect victoria, and she wouldn't allow it. she could, after all, protect herself, and him to boot. when their daughter was born, he knew this was the one he would spend his life protecting, that he would lay his life down for hers in a heartbeat.

that was terrifying for someone who'd never had anyone who he'd die for before, and to have this little tiny pink being be in complete control of him, that was terrifying. he'd kill his father, his sister, his wife, for this tiny little girl, and he knew he'd never regret it.

he decided then and there she'd be a daddy's girl, daddy's little princess, even if it wasn't the way most little girls were. he'd keep her safe, he'd keep her innocent, and she'd never need to know.

when victoria, when gerard, when kate, when everyone, anyone tried to tell allison the truth, he blocked them. she didn't need to know; she was too young, too innocent. he pretended not to see the knowing look in victoria's eyes. allison didn't know. allison didn't need to know.

he knew about things allison could never dream of, had seen things allison hopefully never would, and he knew that the longer she stayed entangled in scott the more painful it would be for her in the end.

but to tell her that, he would have to explain, and have to tell her about all of the horrible, cruel things he'd done, and that was something he never wanted to do.

he just wanted her safe, and he wanted her innocent, and he knew he couldn't have either anymore. and that just broke his heart.

_she'll never know if you don’t tell her, chris. wouldn’t it be easier to keep her safe if she knew?_

daddy's little princess is growing up…

* * *

**(x)-m e l i s s a-m c c a l l**

_help him, melissa. he needs someone._

melissa was a single mother, and she worked hard to keep both in house and home. she didn't always know what was going on with her son, or have the time to ask, but she would do her damndest to keep her only child safe.

she and sheriff sort of teamed up once their boys children of single-parent families, so it wasn't like she was going it alone. melissa had always been friends with sheriff's wife when they were younger (so long ago that she remembered when they'd been pregnant together, and certainly long enough that she'd forgotten both of their real names, only that they were sheriff and honey, a job and a nickname) and so she'd always known stiles, and he'd always known scott. when she divorced from her lazy, abusive asshole of an ex, honey was there for her and got melissa back on her feet. when honey got sick, melissa watched stiles when honey had doctor's appointment and brought casseroles to the stilinskis when it became obvious sheriff was severely lacking in the cooking department.

when honey died, melissa felt like she'd lost a sister and swore she'd watch over stiles as best she could.

she felt responsible for both boys, although she'd never admit it out loud to anyone. actions spoke louder than words, didn't they?

when stiles began to pull back, that was one thing. he was never hers to begin with, no matter how much she loved him and cared for him. but when scott started to pull back, that hurt. he was hers, and he was all she had left, all that was really truly hers.

honey always told her the adage 'if you love someone, you let them go. they'll come back eventually', and melissa decided to take that to heart now. she would give him privacy, but she'd also try to let him know she was there.

it was the best she could do.

_just love him, melissa. just hold him close and never let go, deal?_

 a mother's love endures…       


	2. 13 Deaths (Daltonverse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen boys. Thirteen secrets. One will die.

**(i)-d w i g h t-h o u s t o n** _(the knight)_

_Oh, Dwight. You’re all alone again._

Dwight Houston’s biggest secret is nothing he actively hides, but nothing he advertises either. It involves a pendulum, a faulty map, a murderer and two scared little boys, one of them who happened to be in the wrong place in the right time. Once you have the pieces, it’s not so hard to piece together—Dwight lost someone incredibly close to him and never really recovered.

It’s his biggest secret that he couldn’t save the one soul he’d have given anything for, but not a secret that he’d do anything to save someone important to him, if only to make up for the wrong he’d already done.

The Adam thing is almost like a repeat of Alan, two letters different and another set of disbelievers. Things Dwight had noticed—things that were just a little bit off, things that were wrong, wrong, wrong, but not in the way you would notice them—could have put a stop to it, could have saved a life, and it never did because _no one listened_.

He loves them all, his Windsor brothers, all replacements for Alan in the way that they don’t quite fit, and it always hurts that they dismiss him as crazy, or stupid, or just Windsor-level bizarre.

He’s just trying to protect them, to do the best for the brothers he’s adopted because he can’t do it for the one he was given by blood.

_You’re so broken, Dwight. Would your brother have wanted this?_

Sometimes the truth is too hard to believe…

 

 **(ii)-l o g a n-w r i g h t** _(the knave)_

_Concentrate, Logan. Can you think through the haze?_

When Logan Wright fell in love, he fell hard and deep and fast, and when he fell out of love, it took forever and a day, and never really did go away.

His first month at Dalton, he had a crush on Julian Larson—a hopeless unattainable thing he let go of as soon as he could, because Julian was straight and besides, a _movie star_? How horribly cliché.  Most residual feelings had filtered out of his system by sophomore year—a crush wasn’t the same as falling in love. And besides, Julian was his best friend. It was hard to fall in love with someone you knew wore Spongebob boxers with a straight face and pouted for hours if you beat him at Mario Kart.

Sometime in his second year, he fell for Blaine Anderson. He never could pinpoint the exact moment, but it went rapidly from liking to crush to loving, and this time, it seemed it could actually be love. Of course, he was sixteen—that kind of thing always seems like love then. Even when everything fell apart, he still loved Blaine to a degree. Maybe not as passionately as he had, but he honestly cared for the curly-haired Windsor and apparently, that extended into talking to his _dad_ so a search party could be sent out to find Blaine’s brother.

Immediately after Blaine was Joshua Tipton—not as strong as Blaine, but loving nonetheless—and it hurt (even if he’d never admit it) when Joshua left Dalton permanently. Sometimes, he’d ask Bailey for quiet updates, to which the younger Stuart would always smile knowingly (infuriatingly) and share some bit of information about Joshua’s new life—honor roll, went to a Eminem concert, looking at colleges, visited Mom and Dad in Switzerland. Something to know Joshua was alive and well.

Then, a year later, it was Kurt Hummel. Kurt was…not his type _at all_ , and yet there was something about the countertenor that just drew Logan to him. Kurt just shone, and it was so easy to become one of those people who loved him, so easy to see possibilities of happiness and contentment and forever. Kurt pulled him back to earth, even if he didn’t cut through the medication, but maybe part of that was what drew him to Kurt. It made some kind of sense.

But Julian’s crush on _Logan_ , of all people? It made no sense—Logan _knew_ if people liked him or not. Being a politician’s son meant he could read people and figure out intentions not fifteen seconds after meeting them. He’d never read anything like that off of Julian—or maybe he had and dismissed it as wishful twinges of a long-dead crush from years ago. The more Logan thought about it, the more it made sense—glances he’d dismissed as curiosity, fights that he’d chalked up to the stress of having a prefect on one side and an actor on the other.

_Well, Logan. Who do you really love?_

True love always wins in the end…

 

**(iii)-a d a m-c l a v e l l**

_Help him, Adam. He needs someone._

Adam Clavell wasn’t sure of a lot. He wasn’t sure if the earth really was round (but he took it on good faith that it was) or if school textbooks really knew what had happened. He wasn’t sure if people really had landed on the moon or if Beatrice Nicholls two doors down wasn’t really adopted. He didn’t know how big the earth was, and with the whole Pluto thing, he couldn’t tell you how many planets there were or how many moons they had. He didn’t know how high Mount Everest was—and all those things didn’t really matter.

But what he was sure of, he held to. He knew his parents loved him and he knew that some things could be proven by science (evolution) and others by faith (how else would he still be alive?). He knew that Julian Larson was the best person he knew (that didn’t need an explanation) and that no one else understood him (but of course Adam could).

And he knew that Julian Larson was about ready to break.

It was amazing how no one else had noticed it—had never noticed the bags under the actor’s eyes, had never noticed how tired he seemed in interviews, how there was always that undercurrent of irritation in his voice when he was asked questions at red carpets.

Julian Larson needed someone, and Adam could be that person. Adam could be the one to wipe his tears and make sure he got enough sleep and really, really love him like he deserved.

Julian Larson had saved Adam’s life, by that one speech in Something Damaged, and Adam owed it to the actor. After all, he’d hated himself until then—it was only fair he return the favor, right?

_Just love him, Adam. Just hold his hand and never let go, deal?_

Forever and ever and ever…  

 

**(iv)-r e e d-v a n-k a m p** _(the dormouse)_

_Just rebel, Reed. Break the rules._

Reed Van Kamp had always been sure of who he was _supposed_ to be. He always knew he should be a brilliant artist, a fashion designer, an icon. It helped that he actually liked those things—except, they weren’t _him_. He was good at art—that didn’t mean he wanted to be an artist. He liked fashion—that didn’t mean he wanted to be a fashion designer. That was what his mother wanted, not what he wanted.

So he started rebelling, in small ways. He developed a style radically different from his mother (no good; it shows “creative independence”, apparently), joined the Warblers (not enough; she claims it’s worth it to have other electives as long as they’re not his sole focus), refused to come home for Christmas (she wouldn’t be there anyway). There’s nothing he can do, not now, now when he’s completely under her control.

He resolves that when he’s in college, he’ll forge his own path, and he’ll be the opposite of what his mom wants him to be. Music instead of Art. Psychology instead of fashion. People instead of clothing. Dreams instead of what’s expected of him.

And when he has kids, he’ll be everything his parents never were—strict, overbearing and too heavily involved in his (multiple) child(ren)’s life. He’s going to give his children something to rebel against. And then he’s going to let them.

_Well, Reed. Wanna start a revolution?_

You have no idea…

 

**(v)-c h a r l i e-a m o s** _(the red queen)_

_Is this really you, Charlie? This do-gooder prefect?_

Charlie Amos wasn’t exactly proud of his past. He’d messed up and made mistakes; had hurt people he loved and had finally reached a level he wasn’t entirely sure he could ever recover from. But it ended up being his fault in the end, his fault that she’d died alone.

Her name had been Charlotte, Charlotte Arsenault. Parents made the required jokes that Charlie and Charlotte were best friends, but the two kids didn’t care. They’d thought it was cool, to be Charlotte and Charlie. They’d been thick as thieves, the two loner best friends every neighborhood had. Charlotte was as sweet as Charlie was nasty, the opposites attract best friends duo.

They were each other’s first innocent kisses at seven, first real kisses at twelve, the kind of best friends everyone knew would grow up and get married someday. They had the same favorite foods—cheese pizza with extra cheese and hot chocolate with Tabasco sauce—and loved the same movies and fell asleep tangled together like nothing. She played Power Rangers with him; he played tea party with her.

But one summer afternoon, when they were twelve, Charlie pushed Charlotte out of the tree they usually played in—a joke, like they’d done for the past eight years, ever since they learned how to climb trees—and she broke her arm and had to go to the hospital, and they found out she had leukemia because of a blood test.

Charlie sat with Charlotte as she underwent test after test, stayed overnight with her in the hospital after her first round of chemo. But she grew thinner and weaker, unable to leave her bed, and Charlie just couldn’t stay any longer.

She died alone, in that hospital bed, Charlie too terrified to see his strong, determined Charlotte (because even at twelve, she was _his_ and nobody else’s) die, weakened and reduced to barely-there smiles. He really started to act out after her death, joined a gang and was eventually sent to Dalton Academy to straighten out—and told no one about Charlotte Arsenault, not his prefect, not Justin, not anyone. He straightened out for _her_ , became the good man he would’ve been at _her_ insistence, the good man she would’ve deserved because even at twelve, he’d known he was in love with her.

Somehow, he knew, in his heart of hearts, that in his final moments, it wouldn’t be his girlfriend, Hope, he thought about, not his best friend, Justin, not any of the boys he was tasked with looking after. It would be cinnamon curls and Pixar movies, gap-toothed smiles and hot cocoa mixed with Tabasco sauce, a big oak tree and spiders and everything that was Charlotte.

It would always be Charlotte Arsenault he thought of as he died—always be Charlotte he was ready to go home to.

_The past always comes back, Charlie. Will you ever really get over her?_

No love truer than young love…

 

**(vi)-j u l i a n-l a r s o n** _(the cheshire cat)_

_The truth always comes out in the end, Julian. No matter what you tell yourself._

Julian Larson’s biggest secret was that he was in love with Logan Wright. Maybe three people knew about it—none of whom were Logan or anyone who Julian had told himself. If he’d been normal, maybe it wouldn’t be something to be ashamed of, but he wasn’t normal. He was Julian Larson, an actor, and actors didn’t come out as bisexual when they were seventeen and making blockbuster movies that sold out in minutes. Gay, maybe, but he’d been photographed kissing enough blonde girls to know he wasn’t _gay_. And Logan wasn’t just a special exception—he liked guys too, exemplified by his first kiss and multiple subsequent flings.

The whole situation wasn’t exactly something he could just ask advice for—just imagine the headlines, “Teen Movie Star In Love With State Senator’s Son!” “Gay Scandal On The Set of Something Damaged!” Yeah, no. He was in the tabloids enough, thank you, and the paparazzi would have an absolute field day with this kind of thing.

Sometimes, he thinks about spitting it out angrily in the middle of an argument, to see the fury in those brilliantly green eyes turn to shock, to watch as Logan tried to process this information and cross-reference facts and instances against three years of friendship, and finally for acceptance to dawn in his eyes. After that, Julian’s not sure what would happen, if Logan would hate him or accept it or reciprocate, and that’s what keeps Julian from doing it, from just coming out and telling Logan.

But that’s a secret he’ll take to the grave, if he has to. Friendship is more valuable than love…right?

_He’ll never know if you don’t tell him, Julian. Wouldn’t him knowing make it all worth it?_

Things have a way of working out in the end…

 

( **vii)- j u s t i n-b a n c r o f t** _(the white queen)_

_Tick tock, Justin. Time’s running out._

Justin Bancroft’s secret wasn’t really a secret. It was more of an uncommon circumstance—what really was a secret was Justin’s opinion of the whole circumstance.

The problem was that the kind of people he could fall in love with wouldn’t ever get married at twenty—they were the kind of people who would refuse to get married and instead have kids outside of marriage just for the heck of it. He fell for people who wouldn’t love him back, or would take time to learn to love him, and he had a deadline to meet.

His parents continued to push for him to find a ‘suitable girl’, and he could never tell them the things he’d learned by being in a boarding school in America—that love took time, that his type wasn’t the frilly feminine type who would want to run a family estate in England, that he wanted to live his life before having to settle down.

He wouldn’t mind falling in love—really, he wouldn’t. If he found the right girl, he wouldn’t mind sweeping her off her feet and riding off into the sunset and marrying her and having the happily ever after.

But he wanted to do it on his own terms, on his own schedule, with control over his own life.

Too bad it would never happen like that.

_Your parents just want the best for you, Justin. But don’t you wish they knew what you do?_

Apply too much pressure and you’ll break…

 

**(viii)-b l a i n e-a n d e r s o n** _(the rabbit)_

_Everyone makes mistakes, Blaine. It’s a part of life._

Blaine Anderson had made a lot of mistakes in his seventeen years. Bad grades, the incident with the alcohol in eighth grade, procrastinating studying for a final exam, even dating _Logan_ ranked up there with his messy scorecard of mistakes.

But the mistake that haunts him is the one that caused Jude to die.

Shane doesn’t know, of course. And Blaine had never admitted it out loud, so how could anyone else know? But Blaine knows it’s all his fault that Jude is dead and buried, six feet below ground in a white enamel coffin.

He was supposed to walk home with Jude that night, was supposed to sleep over at Jude’s and have a movie night—they were going to watch some stupid action movie that Blaine couldn’t even remember any more. He and Jude had both stayed late, Jude developing film in the art labs and Blaine trying to rehearse a song for the upcoming Winter Concert. They were halfway down the steps when Blaine realized his mistake—he’d forgotten his sheet music on the stand, and if he left them there, they’d be shredded. He sent Jude ahead and went back for his sheet music. That was the last time he’d ever see Jude alive.

He took the shortcut to Jude’s house, hoping to beat him there—if he hadn’t done that, he would’ve passed by the alleyway where Jude died, would’ve been able to call 911 or at least get help or something.

But he hadn’t, and those two mistakes added up to equal the loss of Jude’s life.

So even though Blaine had made so many mistakes in his seventeen years, that was the worst mistake he’d ever made, and he’d never forget it.

_You can’t blame yourself, Blaine. How could you have known?_

Guilt tastes worse than regret …

 

**(ix)-d a n n y-a b b o t**

_My goodness, Danny. What happened to you?_

Danny Abbot’s greatest secret lies in the thin, white scars that run up his forearms. It’s in the thin letters he’d cut between the parallel lines— _worthless, stupid, unwanted_.

It had been a bad period of his life when he’d put those there, where death had been a comforting thought, when no one cared enough to check up on his bloodstained sleeves or the missing medication from the bathroom cabinets. When no one noticed he had no friends or family to carry him through the depression.

Even though he wrote the word COURAGE on his scars, it wore away by the end of the day, leaving those words there— _worthless, stupid, unwanted_ —reminding him, forever and ever and ever of the family who didn’t want him, who would’ve rather he’d never been born. So it wasn’t “COURAGE” that got him through, but rather the thought of the people he wrote COURAGE for—Wes, Spencer, Justin, Merril.

It’s the knowledge that Hanover is always there to pick him up, that Wes is a phone call away, that Justin would convince Hanover to throw a party just for him, that Spencer’s always there to run laps and Merril’s always good for a cup of coffee and a long talk.

_You don’t need the knife, Danny. Isn’t it nice to know you’ve pulled through?_

Friends show up in unexpected places…

 

**(x)-w e s-h u g h e s** _(the march hare)_

_Oh no, Wes. Why do you feel alone?_

Wes had thought he’d never be loved when he was a child. He grew up in an orphanage, dumped there at three years old, his only memory of his birth mother of her telling the orphanage “I don’t care what you do with him, just take him _away from me_.”  And they did. He never saw her again, learned never to trust anyone, got kicked out of more foster families than he could count, was written off as a hopeless case by age seven. He joined a group of other hopeless case kids, took over the dorms and had a dictatorship that answered only to him before long.

And then his parents came and found him—not his birth parents (they were long, long gone by then), but his _real_ parents. Of course, he didn’t think of them like that then. At seven, he was jaded enough not to believe in happy endings but still innocent enough to think maybe they could really be his parents. When they tried to take him home, he bit the father and drew blood, and broke the mother’s high heeled shoe with a vicious kick. They signed the adoption papers not five minutes later and that was the last he ever saw of the

The house was too big, the four girls who gathered around him and greeted him like long lost family were too loud and frilly and _girly_ , and there were scary men there with guns, even though Dad (what the man insisted Wes call him) claimed they weren’t there to hurt him.

 _They were men with guns, what_ else _was there to do_?

But his new “sisters” dismissed it, told him they were big softies and made them play tea party to prove it.

Over time, he began to think of them as sisters, and Mom and Dad as Mom and Dad, and life was…happy. And then the threats came in earnest, and he was sent to Dalton Academy. He knew they loved him, because they’d picked him out of dozens of children, but still.

He made friends there, his first real friends—the ones at the orphanage were never real friends, and as Mom and Dad’s only son, friends were never _really_ friends, just bodyguards in training. But here at Dalton, he’s made best friends, a second family when he never even expected a first one. He doesn’t tell anyone except Justin and Danny about his past, though. Everyone will treat him differently, and he doesn’t want that. So he doesn’t.

_You found a family, Wes. Doesn’t it feel great?_

Everyone deserves a family…

 

**(xi)- e t h a n e v a n-b r i g h t m a n** _(the tweedles)_

_You’ve done it, Ethanevan. You’ve built Wonderland._

The Twins were one soul born into two bodies; everyone who had ever met them knew that. They couldn’t ever be split apart without serious repercussions. It wasn’t a secret, but a solemn vow between the brothers, a promise of forever.

There was something between them they’d never addressed; something they’d never spoken of and with any luck at all would never have to. If one of them died, the other would waste away or kill themselves, unable to be complete without the other.

Their greatest secret is their greatest fear, the tangible terror of being pulled apart, forever, of having an empty space where the other used to be.

Their entire childhood was built on fantasy, a script they wrote as they went along, about twins never to be split apart, set in a world where they’d never have to grow up, never have to face the reality of needing to become two separate people instead of the one they’ve always been.  But for now, at least, they are Ethanevan, Evanethan, exactly the same down to the last eyelash and no one even considers pulling them apart.

They become fascinated with Wonderland, and Harry Potter, and Narnia, the great journeys that they thrive on—and as they reach their junior year of high school, they’ve finally created their own ‘Warblerland’ and collected everyone in the set.

_But wait, Evanethan. Will it last?_

Good things always come to an end…

 

**(xii)-m i c a h-r a n d a l l**

_Shut the book, Micah. Look at what you’ve done._

Micah Randall often dreamed in terms of books, of stories, of legends. He’d never really admit it, but he secretly wanted to be the hero of some kind of warped fairytale. But who would want an emotionally messed up gay prince? Not Cinderella, that’s for sure.

It wasn’t so much a secret that he was still in love with Shane. Call him girly, call him stupid, call him whatever you’d like, but understand that Micah had spent probably the only truly happy year of his life with Shane, and everything after had just been misery and loneliness and the solid knowledge that he was an outcast.

The last secret was that he wasn’t supposed to be here—not _Dalton_ , here, but _out-of-North-Carolina_ here—that he’d snuck onto a school trip with a forged permission slip and a lie, and from there had run off to Ohio, of all places. But he had to make it right—he’d had enough of being Sleeping Beauty.

If he didn’t do this, didn’t run into that fire and save Blaine and Kurt and even Reed, he’d never be able to forgive himself—just like he’d never be able to forgive himself for letting Shane go. Shane was already out of his grasp, already falling head over heels for Reed, but he could still save Blaine and Kurt.

He still had a chance to be a knight in shining armor, even if who he didn’t end up being the happily ever after for whoever he saved.

_You’ve done right here, Micah. Don’t you think there’s a better happily ever after out there?_

Sometimes it’s worth it to be the hero…

 

**(xiii)-k u r t-h u m m e l** _(alice)_

_Be proud, Kurt. Just be yourself._

Kurt Hummel hates his name. It’s a constant reminder of the mother who died for him, and a constant reminder that he doesn’t quite fit, that there’s something wrong with him.

Elizabeth Hummel was a strong, beautiful woman, who faced down everything life threw her way, raising Kurt, helping manage a business, fighting for equal rights and all the while managing to make dinner and keep the house clean. Dad said Mom had always known that Kurt was gay and that she would’ve supported Kurt no matter what, if she’d lived. She was practically Wonderwoman, with all she did.

How could Kurt ever live up to that?

He’s just the boy who everyone thinks should be a girl, the boy everyone stares at in horror when he shows up (because how dare he be _here_?), the boy who doesn’t fit. Now, he’s accepted—no one cares he’s gay, no one cares he’s feminine, no one cares about his crazy fashion sense, because that’s _normal_ here.

But knowing he’s normal here doesn’t erase the shame that his mother died for him and he’s done nothing to deserve her sacrifice _or_ her name.

_There are worse people to be named after, Kurtis Elizabeth. Do you know how proud your mother would be?_

Here you are…

 


	3. Music (Spah!verse)

  1. **b r a d l e y-m o r r i g a n**



_say anything you want_

Bradley Morrigan grew up in a house where he was an extra thought, the scowling, pessimistic smudge on his family’s perfect life. He and Lee would get along fantastically, if their types of familial rejection weren’t so different. Lee chose to be negative and separate. Bradley hadn’t.

So whenever he was home, he pulled his headphones on—big, clunky black noise cancelling headphones—and his brothers could talk all they wanted and he wouldn’t feel left out. It didn’t matter if he got straight sevens, it didn’t matter he was almost guaranteed to be valedictorian—because Cas and Leon had a brothership bond (not the loneliness of one or the crowd of three, but the simple push and pull of two).

Bradley thought it was because Cas and Leon were genetically identical, exactly the same, one cell split into two, while Bradley just happened to look the same and be born at the same time.

Sometimes, though, they would pull him into their twin bubble, and everything would fall into place and he didn’t need his headphones. But that didn’t happen often enough.

He was fine with it. Really, he was.

Cas and Leon had each other. Bradley had music.

It was easier that way.

_i turn the music up_

 

  1. **h a r r y-t a k a s h i m a**



_will you please hold me_

Harry Takashima grew up in a house filled with love songs. His _okkasan_ hummed Japanese ones under her breath as she swept about the kitchen and his dad would sing the English translation when he was home. As a child, he used to sit under the kitchen table and listened to the harmonies as they made dinner. Their house was filled with a love song of accents— _Okkasan’s_ Japanese one, Dad’s British one and his own American one. They were all American, technically, but Dad had grown up in the UK and _Okkasan_ had lived in Japan and had only recently become a citizen of the US by the time Harry was four.

Even so, Harry loved the cacophonic sounds of their accents, how they contrasted so nicely and still fit together.

When he was older, his dad introduced him to Britpop, and from there it was history. But even those were love songs too, songs about loving someone and losing them and then finding someone new.  And so when his _okkasan_ started teaching him Japanese so he could understand the Japanese lyrics, everything was perfect.

_and sing me a love song again_

 

**iii. l e e-d w y r e**

_amhrán na farraige ór ar na seolta_

Lee Dwyre grew up in a house full of folk songs.

His Mom loved to sing in Gaelic, his father loving to listen to her. All three of his little sisters loved it, and his only brother was a mama’s boy at heart.

Lee hated it. It was everything a family should be, except the heart was never behind it. At least, that was his take when he was younger, and it was only emphasized by the fact that he knew his dad was cheating on his mother with his assistant.

As he got older, he just preferred the cacophonic sounds of rock and the adrenaline fill of rebelling from everything his parents wanted him to be and the perverse pleasure of ruining his father’s hard work over the whine of the fiddle and the harmony of the Gaelic folk songs and the companionship that came from spending time with his little siblings.

But when he was drunk enough, sometimes he would sing some of the bawdier Irish drinking songs in their original Gaelic.

Blood was thicker than water, after all.

_amhrán na farraige ag seoladh na bhfonnta_

 

  1. **d o r i a n-g r i s e**



_turn on your radio ,let’s go, let’s take ‘em to the show_

Dorian Grise loved listening to the radio. He had an iPod Classic and an iPhone, both of which played music pretty well, but he preferred the radio above all.

He loved it because he didn’t have control over it, no one did, except the DJ, and even the DJ put it on shuffle sometimes. It was music he couldn’t pick, music he had and hadn’t heard, and it was always nice to hear something new. Somehow, a song that perfectly matched how he felt always came up, and he always thought the clearest when the radio was on.

He couldn’t sleep without the radio on, and it drove his family absolutely nuts when he’d refuse to sleep for days on end unless he had the radio playing, but it _helped_ , having noise he couldn’t predict playing—it didn’t matter if it was a talk show on the bowel system of the drosophila melanogaster fruit fly or Ke$ha replays, he just needed the ambient noise that he couldn’t predict.

He really, really loved listening to the radio.

_whoa-oh, c’mon turn up your radio_

 

  1. **p r a t i k-k a p o o r**



_music’s in my soul, i can hear it every day and every night_

Pratik Kapoor grew up in a house filled with music. All three of his older siblings had very distinct musical tastes, and they debated them loud and long at appropriate times. As the youngest, Pratik was exposed to everything from the latest pop band (Sara) to ADCD (Rohul) to the most random genres in the local record store’s vinyl bins (Dhavani). His mother listened to Mozart and Beethoven and his father listened to the Beatles and Blondie.

Somehow, every single one of those songs engrained itself in his memory. He was probably the only person in the entire world to have four 80 GB iPods completely full and able to name every single song on them within five seconds of the opening by the age of ten. His father didn’t exactly approve, but his mom was incredibly proud of her son’s memory and bought him his first guitar at age seven.

From there it was history.           

_music’s got control and it’s never letting go, no no_

 

  1. **e r i c-l e n n h a r d t**



_Down on the corner, out in the street_

Eric Lennhardt’s family was big, loud, and musical. He wasn’t anything special in a family of boys who could harmonize in thirds at the drop of a hat—and often did, at the most random times. He still can’t visit the Lima shopping center without blushing or getting supremely embarrassed after that one time when all seven of his brothers suddenly started singing _Come On Eileen_ in seven part harmony. James dragged Eric into it to sing the higher notes, and while it was fun, people started staring. And so it probably was for the best that no one remembered Eric as the awkward little boy who ran away from the group and threw up in the bushes outside the mall after they began to sing.

To this day, he still can’t stand hearing his brothers sing _Tooraloura, toolaroura_ without turning a sickly shade of green.

_Bring a nickel, tap your feet_

 

**vii. g a r y-p a i g e**

_we will sing sing sing_

Gary Paige grew up in a house full of hymns. His parents were Christian, his dad was the worship leader at their church. Both his sisters were members of the church choir. The resulting combination was a dozen different musical styles being played at any given moment, songs of praise bubbling over with life and joy.

Somewhere in the mix, he’d developed his own world view, maybe sometime around the time his dad was searching for music to lead the congregation in worship and his mom was obsessively putting that one singer (Chris…Tomlin, he thinks) on loop.  But no matter where he is, hearing any kind of hymn puts a smile on his face and reminds him that there’s _someone_ there. Maybe not _God_ , but at least _a_ god, someone who would watch out for him. Someone who didn’t care that he liked guys and girls, someone who understood that love was love no matter what and that the Bible told everyone to love everyone else, no exceptions.

He didn’t advertise it—people thought it was weird and it was just easier to believe what he believed quietly and listen to the music that calmed his heart.

It was always nice to know there was someone there, someone who definitely cared about him.

_and make music with the heavens_

 

**viii. d a v i d-h a r d i s o n**

_you’re gonna move the way you want to move today_

David Hardison grew up in a house of dancers. Not that any of them would ever admit it, but they were all dancers, to some degree. His mom loved to twirl as she moved, her skirts swirling around her, and his father moved with the long ease of a former dancer. Once Wes was added to the mix, everyone had their own steps, their own patterns fitting neatly with everyone else’s. No one ever ran into each other, instead delicately moving away from collisions with spins and wide steps, skin barely brushing as they skimmed past each other.

David was not a dancer. He slipped up, missed cues and couldn’t move in sync with everyone else. He preferred the Warbler’s method of dancing, everyone either swaying in place (something even he couldn’t mess up) or intentionally looking like complete idiots just for the fun of it. He could imitate people, just not make up his own moves.

Wes always fit in his family better, reading the choreography off everyone faces, and David was always jealous of the way Wes always seemed to know exactly where to go and what to do. He was jealous, but he also got to share the Heely family, who didn’t care if he missed a step or knocked someone over.

So he grew up a dancer, in his own David-ish way.

_Just let me follow along_

 

  1. **w e s-h e e l y**



_ain’t that mister-mister on the radio, stereo_

Wes Heely grew up in a house of clumsy movement. No one ever aligned themselves with each other, like in David’s home, or delicately sidestepped everyone else, but instead slammed into each other at full speed. Music was always playing somewhere in his house, loud and proud, happy and fulfilling.

David always fit in better, loving the freestyle of the Heely home rather than the carefully synced choreography of the Hardison home. Wes didn’t like it as much, preferring everything to have a place and a way of moving. The Warblers movement was too easy—step right, step left, turn-step-sway, raise hand. He wouldn’t mind something different every once in awhile, but he also loved the ease of getting everything right the first time.

So Wes grew up a dancer, in his own Wes-ish way.

_the way you move ain’t fair you know_

 

  1. **l i a m-v a n s h r i e k**



_none of that mumbo-jumbo_

Liam van Shriek grew up in a house full of soft, quiet music. His mother was always busy, but when she was home, she’d play piano for her two sons or compared classical composers with modern composers. Liam loved it, but he also loved his early morning runs with his iPod turned up loud, and the simple truth was that classical music was not conducive to improving track times.

When running, he preferred hip-hop or rap or even old fashioned funk. Just something with a beat. He liked Eminem because he was so mad all the time, and when you were mad, you went fast, and when you went fast, your times improved.

When he was home for the summer, his mom would run with him in the early mornings. She had her own iPod, and while they ran together, they were enclosed in their own bubbles of silence. Liam sometimes wondered what kind of music his mom ran to, but he never asked. It was personal, just like his own music.

It was circles and cycles of music and running, and it was perfect for Liam.

_gimme that hip-hop funk soul_

 

  1. **b e n-g r e e n**



_whoa-oh hear us on your stereo_

Ben had been in a band back in England. Keyboards and backing vocals were his deal, but he was passable on the guitar and could hold his own on lead.

It had been he and his best mates (Riley, Willis, John and Katelyn) and they’d just had *fun* together.  They never intended for it to be anything big, just covers and goofing off and swirling guitar riff competitions from Riley and Willis and drum rolls and cymbal crashes from Katelyn and rolled eyes and bass lines from John. They’d saved up money and recorded a real demo as a farewell present for Ben, and when he was really homesick, he’d pop it in his laptop and listen to John take lead with Katelyn adding in verses, their always-freestyle.

So when he met team/blu, it was almost like a reflection of Space Oddities, only gayer, more serious and just as close-knit.

But he was definitely getting back off vibes from the Indian guy. Pat? Patrick? Pratik, that was it. And he understood that. A band was definitely something sacred. He wasn’t going to mess that dynamic up. Even if playing keyboard with them was as close as he got to Space Oddities practice for months.

_whoa-oh we’re about to lose control_

 

**xii. j u l i a n-d e l a c r o i x**

_Next time won’t you sing with me?_

Julian Delacroix grew up in a house completely in order. Books alphabetized, closets color-coded, everything in its perfect place.

Letters fit neatly in alphabetical order, just like they were supposed to. That’s why he liked the library—everything alphabetized by category. He needed things to go in orders—size, color, number, letter, if it had a place, Julian could find it.

Patterns were simple, but they gave him a headache if they weren’t in order. Puzzles were fun, but he hated word searches.

But patterns continued in his day to day life—important people could be categorized alphabetically, and he was convinced fate did it that just for him.

Allison and Andy were his parents.

Bradley was his best friend and first love.

Dalton, where he lived most of the year.

Dwyre, Lee was a friend, but not so much as Bradley.

Jim was Lee’s boyfriend, important by association.

Morrigan, Cas and Leon, were important because they were Bradley’s brothers but not as important as Bradley himself.

New York was his birth state—Albany, to be exact, but New York fit better since Dalton was his home most of the year.

See? Everything in its place, exactly as it should be.

_a b c d e f g…_

 

**xiii. j i m-b o n d**

_tik-tok on the clock_

Jim Bond grew up in a house full of sobriety. Sedate colors, calm music, quiet conversations, somber respect and deference. He grew up the protectors of his little siblings, the one who always took the blame for too-loud laughter or unexpected defiance.

He didn’t mind. He’d do *anything* for Jenny and Pierce, but sometimes he just wanted to fling himself into carefree recklessness, where he didn’t have to worry about protecting someone else.

So it was haven—not heaven, but haven—to listen to loud club music, frivolous, fake, happy music. That wasn’t to say he didn’t like calm music every now and then, he simply preferred the sheer mindless pleasure in predictable beats and simple lyrics, something that meant nothing at all.

Was that really so bad?

_dj blow my speakers up tonight_

 


	4. Dr Who Character Studies

**Donna Noble**

Sometimes, she remembered.

Little bits and things that made no sense–wandering around Pompeii, a stranger in a long brown duster, a library the size of a planet, a beaded dress and Agatha Christie, a woman with blonde hair, a blue police box, a giant bug. Things that felt so _real_ she knew the texture and the smell, how it felt, things that were so vividly true they felt like they could only be memories.

But they couldn’t be, they just couldn’t be.

For one, they were too fantastic to be real. Donna Noble, flying through time and space? The sun was more likely to turn blue and begin singing nursury rhymes. She was the best temp in Cheswick, hundred words a minute, not an astronaut or time traveller.

For two, she couldn’t believe they were real. because if they were, then what was she still doing here in Cheswick? Why would she have forgotten? Who could she have become with adventures and knowledge like that to lift her up?

No, they had to be dreams. Really scary, really vivid dreams, but they couldn’t be real…could they?

Sometimes, she remembered.

 

**Rose Tyler**

She never forgot.

Every second, every detail…there was nothing she could forget, even if she wanted to. She owed it all to the Doctor, her Doctor, who took her from nothing and made her into something.

Sometimes she wished she could forget.

Her life was so irrevocably changed–she met her father, she saw the end of the world, she learned of new species, planets, customs…she learned things she would be happy not knowing, things that she didn’t want or need to know. She was Bad Wolf, she lived in a parallel universe.

She would never be the same.

She wasn’t the same Rose Tyler, not anymore. She was a completely new person.

She never forgot.

 

**The Master**

There was nothing he wanted to forget.

Problem was, he sometimes just couldn’t remember.

He knew there were good memories there, stored under the sadness and the desperation, hidden by that simple drumbeat that so consumed his life.

They’d grown up together, he and the Doctor, complete equals and polar opposites, best friends but also bitter enemies.

For every bad memory, there was a good one to even it out. For every time they’d fought and hurt each other, there was a memory of a kiss pressed to an injury and a shoulder to cry on until the pain lessened. For every scheme failed or foiled, there was one they’d made together and followed through.

They were perfect balance, Theta and Koschei, The Master and The Doctor. Yin and Yang, birth and death, destruction and creation.

They needed each other, but sometimes he couldn’t remember why. Nine hundred years aren’t easily remembered, after all.

He’d still never change anything.

There was nothing he wanted to forget.

 

**Captain Jack Harkness**

He’d joined to remember.

Two years of memories, just gone, just like that. No one could (or would) tell him why or give them back–so he’d quit the Time Agency to find them and get them back.

The Doctor had seemed like he could fix everything. The Doctor: wiseman, healer. Who better to fix him than the most famous doctor of all time?

So Captain Jack Harkness signed up, joined in.

He never _did_ get those memories back.

But he easily made up for them, with the extra time he was given. He made memories with Rose, Mickey, Martha, the Doctor. Torchwood too, his beloved team, ever growing, ever-changing. And Ianto.

Beautiful, beautiful Ianto.

He’d joined to remember.

But he stayed to forget.

 

**Sarah Jane Smith**

She’d been forgotten.

Like so many others, she’d been left behind. How many companions had the Doctor had? How many of them were left like she was, dropped off with no ceremony? How many never saw him again?

Those memories burned in her mind.

She devoted her life to what was out there, knowing she’d never go back but never being able to forget, forever knowing she was one of the forgotten. Her son, her supercomputer, her robot dog…they were all things that were a result of something brilliant, things she never would have had without the Doctor.

And then it turned out he wasn’t dead. But he wasn’t there for her, he was there for Rose, and that boy Mickey.

Rose was so like Sarah Jane herself.

And so Sarah Jane had helped, with a heavy heart. Before long, the same thing that had happened to herself would happen to the younger girl.

Her assistance wouldn’t change anything, not really. But it did make her feel better. After all…

She’d been forgotten.

 

**Amy Pond**

She’d already forgotten.

The girl who waited, the girl who lost…the girl who _lived_. The girl who grew up with a crack in time in her wall, the girl who forgot her family, who forgot her daughter, who forgot her love.

Was it all that shocking she was so capable of forgetting?

She kept a journal, a detailed log of everything that happened. At night, she sat with it and went over the familiar words, writing them over and over, memorizing the words until she could recite them in her sleep. Rory thought she was crazy but humored her.

Amelia Pond wasn’t going to forget her daughter or her husband, not this time. Not again. Time might steal the memories, but it couldn’t touch the words inked elegantly on the small of her back.

Her memory had never been good, but she was going to cling to this forever. Except…

She’d already forgotten.

 

**River Song**

Memory was a tricky thing.

Her timeline was backwards, an endless cycle of forgetting, never aligning and never knowing the same. She remembered all too well every time he knew her less and less, when his memories didn’t align with hers, until finally he didn’t know her at all that day in the library.

In this world of spirits but not bodies, everything was jumbled up and tricky.

Was she River Song, the Doctor’s Wife, or was she Melody Pond, the girl who killed him? Did she have children or was she a child herself? How long had she been in this half-life?

Perpetual limbo, no clues to go by and no hope of rescue.

Memory was a tricky thing.

 

**Rory Williams**

He never forgot.

That was something he never told anyone–his perfect photographic memory.

He always knew who Amy ways. Even when she didn’t know him, he knew her. Even when timelines changed, he always had a memory of her, of the kind of warmth he only felt near her, of how much he needed her and only her.

Over 2,000 years he stood guard for her, and he remembered every excruciating moment of boredom, but also ever moment he spend defending her and keeping her safe.

And his daughter…the Doctor and his adventures stole his daughter, his one and only Melody, his baby girl. He remembered how she felt in his arms, soft and sleeping…but she hadn’t really been his, had she?

Of course it hurt, remembering each moment and being forced to acknowledge it was fake or wrong.

But he also remembered every perfect moment where he was able to save Amy, every little detail about their wedding, how it felt when he held their second child snugly in his arms and watched him grow up.

He never forgot.

 

**Mickey Smith**

He wished he could forget.

He’d loved Rose, really he had. They’d been miserable kids together, but they’d also had plenty of good memories–Christmas biscuits, stupid teachers, lame first jobs…they’d been better together.

After she met the Doctor, Rose was different. Not good different, but not bad different either. She just wasn’t his Rose.

He guessed he’d always known Rose was made for bigger and better things, he just always assumed he’d be along for the ride, Mickey and Rose, Rose and Mickey. But she’d gone off with the Doctor and returned someone different–someone who didn’t need Mickey.

If he could turn back time, sometimes he thinks he would. He and Martha? Yeah, they were fantastic together. But he still missed the easy love of just him and Rose, the mindless sort of dreaming they’d grown up doing.

The adventures were great, don’t get him wrong. But he was more of a homebody than Rose.

He wished she’d come back.

He wished he could forget.

 

**Martha Jones**

She carried the memories with her.

She was a doctor, she appreciated order and procedure. She fit right in with UNIT, with their methodical approach to everything. She even fit in with Torchwood because she evened out their balance of do-as-you-please.

Neither would have worked if she hadn’t travelled with the Doctor, if she hadn’t learned to live. If she was still Martha Jones, family referee.

Every day she dealt with the extraordinary, and that made her appreciate the ordinary so much more. She’d held the fate of the world in her hands with the Osterhagen Key tied around her neck with a titanium chain.

Everyone in UNIT knew that she’d seen the universe, that she knew what was really out there.

They respected (and hated) her for that.

So she went about her life, not regretting but not entirely thankful, either.

She carried the memories with her.

 


End file.
